Fork in the Road
by happycabbage75
Summary: A ghost is killing golfers, forcing Sam and Dean to pose as caddies. Post It’s a Terrible Life.
1. Chapter 1

**Fork in the Road**

Summary: A ghost is killing golfers, forcing Sam and Dean to pose as caddies... Post _It's a Terrible Life_

Disclaimer: All Kripke's, not mine.

_The idea here has been percolating for a while, but I blame this story entirely on those pictures of Jensen in his golfing outfit._

Chapter One

* * *

"There has to be an easier way," Dean said.

"We already discussed this," Sam replied patiently.

"No, we did not discuss _this_," his brother shot back, his hand gesturing up and down to his clothes.

They were wearing the club-required caddy outfit which was an oversized white coverall. Sam didn't like the outfit any better than Dean, but so far his brother was managing to complain enough for both of them.

"Dean," Sam said, and nearly winced. Just that one word had come out sounding patronizing even to him. "Oaklawn is a very old school country club. All of the caddies have to wear the coverall."

"This is the 21st century!" Dean griped and Sam tried not to grin. They both knew Dean wasn't going to win on this. He just wanted to bitch about it for a while, and Sam was suffering through it. "I mean it's degrading. Who makes their employees run around in 95 degree weather in these monkey suits just to watch some old guy wander around the yard and hit a little ball from here to there!"

"Apparently Oaklawn," Sam answered dryly.

Dean just gritted his teeth. "Well, remind me to burn these before we leave. Every last one of these freakin' outfits. Might be more help to society than taking care of whatever's killing the golfers."

Sam just rolled his eyes. "Cause they won't just order more of them."

"Whatever. The caddies will still have a few days of freedom," his brother said, like that settled the matter.

"Great, Dean. The Boston Tea Party and jumpsuits. Fight the oppression."

"I mean who even has a caddy anymore! That's why they invented golf carts. So the fat businessmen don't have to carry their clubs around." Dean fidgeted, squirming inside the overlarge white garment. "I can't decide if this thing feels more like a prison outfit or I'm regressing and somebody put me in a giant onesie."

"One, I'm frightened you know that word. Two, it's only for a few days hopefully. And yes, you are regressing."

Dean rolled his eyes. "_One_, I've seen you in a onesie before, _Sammy. _You just so happened to be a rugrat at the time. Seein' you in one again at Sasquatch size is kinda freakin' me out. And two, dude, girls like babies. I like girls, so I like babies, too. You'd be amazed how sexy some of 'em think a man willing to change a diaper is."

"You're right. I would be."

"And that is why you are you, and I get women." He shot an unhappy glance at him. "Well, _human_ women," he added under his breath.

Sam felt his patience quickly deciding to leave town, and spent several seconds taking very deliberate breaths. He hadn't seen Ruby in a while and he was starting to get a little twitchy anyway. He'd need more blood before long or Dean would see there was a problem. His brother's constant picking at him wasn't helping matters.

Oblivious to Sam's thoughts, Dean frowned, glaring at his coverall as if he could make the thing ignite by staring at it. "And that is another reason this stupid outfit sucks. How is a guy supposed to impress anybody, let alone a woman, looking like this?"

Sam huffed out a breath. "Think of this as a chance to get some sun."

"Yeah, I've been worried about not getting enough vitamin D," Dean replied petulantly.

Sam chose not to say anything, his anger fading as quickly as it had arisen. He really would be glad for Dean to get some sun. The Winchester men had always tended toward the fish-belly white end of the spectrum. They did too much of their work at night and slept through too many days. Since Dean had come back, however, it was even more pronounced. Maybe it was all in Sam's head, but Dean seemed even paler. He'd never liked standing out in the open for too long, but now it was as if it were his goal to shrink back into the shadows, like it wasn't safe away from cover, not even for a few minutes.

It wasn't that he was… hiding exactly. Sam was trying to think of it as being overly cautious. He caught himself expecting Dean to be the same reckless, barrel-his-way-in kind of guy he'd been in his younger days, but Dean wasn't a young guy anymore. Dean was a seventy year old man who'd been beaten down beyond what any human could bear.

Dean still had that swagger in his step, but it was almost like he was a method actor trying to remember his role. He knew what he was supposed to be like and he was immersing himself in the persona, trying to make it stick. But be that as it may, Dean didn't exactly run in headlong, damn the consequences anymore. Dean knew about the consequences now.

The problem was that right now was not the time for caution. The apocalypse was on their doorstep. They had to be prepared to go out in a blaze of glory, doing whatever it took to make sure the rest of the world was safe. If Dean couldn't do that anymore then Sam was going to have to. It was his turn anyway.

Sam turned toward his brother who was still muttering under his breath about the outfit. Sam didn't know what he had to complain about. At least his fit. Sam looked like he was in short pants and if he flexed his shoulders too much, he'd probably rip the thing.

"Just don't get us fired before we figure this out. That's all I'm asking," Sam pleaded.

"Me?" Dean asked incredulously. "Tell me again. Who attacked his phone and got escorted out by security at the last place we were working?"

"Shut up," Sam said through clenched teeth. "I hated that phone."

"At least it wasn't your cell phone again," Dean grumbled. "Tired of buying you new ones."

Sam shot a glance toward his brother, but didn't say anything. After the mess with the siren, Sam had been forced to admit he'd broken his phone. He'd just been so... angry. Although angry didn't quite cover it. He'd been furious. His brother had refused to trust his judgment, then shot his mouth off about Madison and Sam's luck with women. Everything had just bubbled up at once, and he'd cracked the phone against the wall before he'd been able to clamp down on his emotions.

It was his mantra. _Not in front of Dean. Not in front of Dean_. Sam could do the things he had to do to keep them both safe, but _not in front of Dean_. His brother couldn't be allowed to see what was really going on in his head. Dean was a mess, dealing with everything that had happened to him, and Sam didn't need to add to that. He'd probably only get punched again if he did tell him, maybe worse if Dean really learned what was going on.

"Hey, uh... Sam?"

Sam snapped out of his thoughts and frowned at the uncertainty in his brother's voice. "What?"

"You... uh... you know anything about golf?"

Sam blinked. "What?"

"Well, if you're gonna make me go through with this caddy thing, I probably ought to know something about the clubs and stuff. Pretty much all I know about golf, I learned from _Caddyshack_."

Sam smirked, part of the reason for Dean's irritation becoming clear. He hated wandering into a situation he had no frame of reference for. He'd have managed well enough, faked what he could and blustered through the rest, but he still didn't like it. "Well, rule number one. Don't use plastic explosives molded into animal shapes to destroy the course."

Dean nodded seriously, his brow furrowed as if concentrating. "No blowing up the course. Check."

"Right." Sam looked around and then headed to a cart parked outside the clubhouse with a bag and set of clubs sitting in the back. "It's not too complicated," Sam said, watching to make sure an angry patron didn't come running out of the clubhouse to snatch his bazillion dollar clubs away from the two shady caddies. "The clubs are separated into woods and irons. Woods are your big distance clubs."

"Doesn't look like wood. Looks like metal."

"They used to be made out of wood. Focus," Sam said, refusing to get sidetracked. "Bare basics, you start with the biggest head and flattest face. It gives you the greatest distance and the least loft, also the least control, in general." Sam pointed while he was talking, showing him the order. "The clubs get progressively shorter and the heads more slanted to give less distance, but more loft, three iron, four, five, etc," he pointed to each club respectively, "until you end up with a wedge," he pointed again, "which is basically just to pop the ball up out of a trap."

Sam looked at Dean and saw that he was studying the clubs with an almost rapt fascination. He could see him measuring angles, matching what he knew of how the world worked with how he thought the clubs would work. Dean was visibly itching to get his hands on them and give them a try himself. He was just too mechanically minded not to want to. He loved seeing how things ticked. Sam made a mental note to get Dean a little time on the driving range.

Suddenly, Dean looked up at him. "You've played before."

"Yeah." Sam couldn't help a smile. "When I was at Stanford. The rich kids do spend a lot of time at the country club." He shrugged. "I got invited a couple of times."

It felt like a lifetime ago. Maybe two or three lifetimes ago. He'd divided his life into two distinct periods when he'd first got back into hunting, before he lost Jess and after he lost Jess. There had been other huge mile markers since then, their dad's death, Sam's own death, the deal, but he knew now that he'd crossed the real break point of his life, the Winchester continental divide. He imagined it was the same for Dean. Pre-hell and post-hell. It was what their lives boiled down to. If Sam had thought their lives were hard before, if he'd thought they'd been dealing with more than they could handle, he knew better now. Dean had died, and everything was different.

How could he mourn the loss of his Stanford life when he'd lost so much more since then, when he'd nearly lost it all, still might if the world fell apart.

Dean grinned. "I bet you even wore the official golf uniform. Sammy, the super geek, probably couldn't wait to find the perfect golf shoes, and those dorky pants."

"How do you think I got Jess to go out with me?" Sam asked, eyebrows raised. "She thought I looked hot."

His brother snorted. "You were probably wearing a hat. She didn't find out about the hair until it was too late."

Sam smirked. Jess had loved running her fingers through his hair, but he wasn't going to share that little tidbit with his brother. He hadn't shared it with Ruby either, although he'd ordered her to knock it off when she'd tried it. "Are you done messing around yet? We've got a meeting, ya know."

"Oh, I know." Dean smiled widely. "But the apocalypse is nigh and all that. A guy's gotta take the fun where he can get it."

"Come on," Sam huffed.

He led the way around the back of the clubhouse to the employee entrance, feeling Dean laughing at him all the way there. Sam still wasn't sure exactly what had happened to Dean while he was playing the businessman extraordinaire, but he was grateful for it. His brother seemed lighter, moving more easily than he had in a long while.

Sam had been afraid to leave Dean alone after the disaster with Alistair and the broken devil's trap. He just wasn't sure what Dean might do, kill himself, kill someone else, shut down completely. Anything had been possible. He'd been keeping it together for the most part until then, bluffing his way through the bad moments, but in the hospital, after the angels screwed up, _again_, asking him to torture Alistair and finding out about the first seal... It was as if everything that had happened crashed down on him at once, and he'd buckled under the weight.

Dean's time in an office, of all things, coupled with whatever Castiel's boss said had helped his brother regain his equilibrium. Sam owed the angels for that. It was the only reason he hadn't hunted them down and killed them with his bare hands for hurting Dean in the first place. The demons had nearly destroyed him. He didn't need angels finishing the job.

They hurried through the clubhouse, climbing a back stair toward the offices. There was, of course, a far grander staircase up to the second floor, but caddies didn't get to walk through that section. Sam looked around him as they reached the top of the stairs and began walking down the hallway toward the office at the end.

The building wasn't overtly expensive. Rather it reeked of old money. It was simple, tastefully done in beautiful woods, heavy carpeting such that they barely made a sound as they walked. A few paintings were scattered on the walls, some of which he guessed cost more than his Stanford education.

Sam opened the door at the end of the hall to find a thirtyish woman sitting at a desk with a phone held in the crook of her shoulder. She had carefully coiffed shoulder-length blonde hair, simple but tasteful jewelry, and from what he could see classically styled business attire. She made a little mew of distaste at the sight of two caddies on her doorstep, but quickly covered it with her best urbane, executive-assistant type smile as she help up a finger, asking them to wait.

While she talked about some arrangement for an upcoming invitational, Sam simply stood in front of the desk. Dean, however, began to mill about the room, picking up odds and ends to examine them before setting them back down. The secretary frowned as she watched him, but Dean continued his circuit of the room. Sam had a gut feeling he was doing it just to piss the woman off for the condescending look she'd given them and for making them wait.

Finally, she couldn't stand it anymore and said, "Martha, I'll have to call you back." She looked up at Sam, then Dean as he came to stand beside him. "Can I help you?"

"We're here to see Mr. Warren. We have an appointment," Sam said.

"Names?"

"Sam and Dean."

"Last names?" She raised an eyebrow in question.

"Just tell him we're here," Dean said impatiently. "He's the one who called _us_."

Her eyes narrowed in annoyance, but she picked up her phone again and pressed several buttons. "Mr. Warren? Sam and…" She frowned just a bit and looked at him, as if she'd already forgotten his name.

"Dean," he mouthed wearing his most innocent smile. Sam had seen his brother use it right before he gutted someone.

"Dean." Whatever she heard made her expression turn brittle. "Yes, sir." Her eyes moved back and forth between them, weighing them again, this time with far more interest. She stood and brushed the wrinkles out of her skirt, while still studying them. Sam saw that despite his irritation, Dean couldn't help but notice she was a shapely woman. "This way, gentlemen." She opened the oversized wooden door and stepped through, holding it for them. "Can I get you something to drink?"

"No, thank you. You've been so helpful," Dean said, smiling so insincerely his cheeks probably hurt.

The secretary gave him a once-over, from top to bottom and Sam got the feeling Dean would have done a whole lot not to be wearing the much-hated caddy uniform, but instead he very frankly returned the favor until the woman was blushing a brilliant rose red, although that was the only sign of her lost composure.

"That will be all, Ms. Nichols."

"Yes, sir." The woman hurriedly closed the door behind them, leaving them alone in a large, plush office, definitely meant to impress visitors with how important the man behind the oversized desk was.

Mr. Warren was a large man, tall and more muscled than many an executive in his mid 50s probably. His hair was most likely gray, but it was hard to tell thanks to a, no doubt, expensive dye job. He was wearing standard business attire, although if Sam had to guess, his suit was personally tailored and it certainly made the two of them look even more underdressed in their jumpsuits.

Sam stepped forward and held out his hand. "I'm Sam. This is my brother, Dean."

The man grasped his hand with a firm, confident grip. "Thank you for coming," he said, and Sam realized he had a voice to match his exterior. It was a deep baritone, meant for instilling confidence in those around him. He'd have made a fine politician or military man, depending on his personality. "Have a seat."

"Thank you for making the arrangements for us," Sam said, running a hand over his coverall, ignoring the derisive snort he heard from Dean.

"My pleasure," Mr. Warren answered. "This needs to be taken care of as soon as possible."

"We've looked into it some, but why don't you tell us what you know," Sam prompted.

"You know about the deaths, of course."

"Six in the last two months, all in the same area of the course, apparent heart attacks," Dean said.

"There were others in the months before that, but it's only in the past couple of months that it's been making the papers," Mr. Warren explained. "Several others have managed to hold on long enough to die in the hospital."

Dean cocked his head to the side. "How many total dead people are we talking here?"

"Fifteen that I know of." He frowned. "I suspect several others have had close calls."

"How do you know?"

"I am the president of this club. I know all of our members," the man said, self-importance sneaking into his tone. Sam decided the guy definitely would have gone the politician route. "Some men don't want it known that they've had a near miss. Their companies might start thinking they're a little past prime and start looking for a younger man to take their place."

"So how do you know?"

"They're marked."

"Marked how?"

"They have something on their hands, almost like a discoloration where they touched the golf club."

"Well, that's… interesting," Dean said, a thoughtful frown on his face.

"We'll need a list of everyone you suspect has been affected," Sam said.

"No. You will not disrupt any of the members," Warren replied sternly. "This is to be taken care of quickly and quietly."

"We need to know," Sam explained patiently despite the urge to tell the guy he could stick his ghost problem where the sun didn't shine. They had bigger fish to fry than this pathetic little ghost hunt. Their bigger fish were practically whales at this point, and Warren was worrying about guppies. "The victims chosen might have something in common, something that's setting off the ghost."

Mr. Warren scowled at the word ghost. "You will not speak to the members unless in the capacity of your employment here as caddies. Any other inquiries made will be _discreet_. Is that understood?"

Dean smiled broadly. "Discretion is our specialty."

* * *

_More soon... Might not be until Monday. Sunday belongs to the E/O crowd and I don't want to horn in on the fun. Maybe it's a sign I've spent entirely too much time watching Dark Angel, but all I can think of is Eyes Only whenever I see the label..._


	2. Chapter 2

**Fork in the Road**

Summary: A ghost is killing golfers, forcing Sam and Dean to pose as caddies... Post _It's a Terrible Life_.

_The site's a little glitchy. Hope y'all are enjoying the story..._

Chapter Two

* * *

Mr. Warren closed the door behind them with a decided snap, happy to be rid of them. Sam scowled. He had a sudden desire to walk to the car and leave this place far behind them. If the guy couldn't even be polite when asking for their help, he didn't really deserve the help. They had an entire world on the brink of destruction, not just this jerk.

"Dude, your shoulders are up by your ears," Dean observed. "Relax. If I can put up with this stupid get-up, then you can deal with a jackass telling us how to do our job. We ignore him like we ignore everybody else."

"Dean, we-"

They both turned at the sound of Ms. Nichols delicately clearing her throat. "Gentlemen?"

Dean frowned, eyeing the woman again. "Don't worry. We're leaving." He walked around Sam and headed for the door. Sam noted that as was often the case since Dean's return, he didn't touch him. Before Dean would have given him a brotherly shove toward the door, or bumped his shoulder, something to get him moving. But not now.

Sam didn't know if it was because Dean subconsciously shied away from touching anyone these days, or if it was more than that. Dean said he didn't care that Sam had been tainted with demon blood, but Sam was afraid that deep down it made a difference, that he was too closely related to the monsters now for Dean to get too close. Whether Dean wasn't comfortable with physical contact in general since coming back from hell, or whether it was just Sam, the result was the same. Sam felt left out in the cold.

"Please, wait," the secretary said, and Dean stopped with his hand on the door knob. He and Sam both turned to see the woman holding out a piece of paper. "Take it."

"What is it?"

"A list," she nervously looked toward her boss' closed door, "of every person who's died or who's had a heart attack in the past six months, even the ones no one is supposed to know about."

Sam stepped toward the desk and took the sheet of paper, seeing that it was exactly what she claimed it to be. He recognized the names of the dead men they'd already looked into along with about twenty others, more even than Mr. Warren had guessed.

"You're really here to stop this?" she asked, as if hardly daring to believe it.

"Yeah," Dean said, peering around Sam to look at the paper.

"How?"

"Apparently in a very swanky, tactful, and invisible sort of way." Dean smirked. He took a step away from Sam and looked up. "You knew he wouldn't give this to us?"

Ms. Nichols gave them a strained smile. "Mr. Warren is... predictable in many ways."

"He's a prick, huh?"

The woman's lips twitched like she wanted to laugh, but was too well mannered to allow the sentiment. "The last few months have not been easy. He is under enormous pressure because of the problems. The health department is threatening to shut us down. They think there must be some sort of contaminant we're using on the course."

"Well, thank you for these," Sam said. "It's a big help."

The phone on her desk buzzed and she picked it up. "Yes, sir, I'll be right in." She set the phone down and started gathering up files from different stacks on her desk. "I've called down and arranged for you to caddy Tom Hubbard and Ed Driscoll. They have a 2 o'clock tee time." She headed toward Mr. Warren's door. "They're the biggest gossips in the club. If anyone can help you, they can."

* * *

Sam wasn't sure if he was appalled or impressed. It might be a mixture of the two.

They'd met Tom and Ed for their tee time and Dean had walked right up to the two guys who both looked to be 120 years old and said he knew absolutely nothing about golf. He'd told the two that he needed someone to show him the ropes or he was going to get fired on his first day. Within two holes, Tom and Ed's twosome had turned into a threesome and Tom and Ed were imparting every last bit of knowledge they had ever learned about the game of golf and how it was to be played.

At first, Sam could only stand by in amusement as Dean studied the two old men. He'd watched their grip on the club, and carefully copied it. He made them go through why they chose each club for each shot, and had them happily discussing which would be the best club choices for Dean as well since he was about a foot taller and strong enough to break the old codgers in half. The two old men had obviously known each other for 119 of their 120 years and they argued and groused and generally complained about each other and the other's choices the entire time, all the while, each patiently tutoring Dean in the basics of the game.

Sam might as well not have existed. Mr. Muscles, as Tom and Ed quickly started calling him, was very kindly allowed to manage both of the golf bags, and encouraged not to interrupt.

It took several holes, but as Sam had seen over the years, Dean was a quick study. He was strong and steady, determined, focused. Sam had worked and worked to become the hunter he was, and he was physically stronger than Dean now, but it had never come naturally like it had to his brother. Dean just had a more deft and instinctive touch at any physical endeavor, and he was showing all of that off now.

"He's a natural, Ed!" Tom proclaimed for about the fiftieth time. "You see that putt? He used the roll in the green like he was born to it!"

"Darndest thing I've ever seen, Tom," Ed answered, also for about the fiftieth time.

Dean was practically glowing. He was also having fun, something else that Sam hadn't seen in a long time. Training with their dad, or learning whatever skill he'd had to teach them, had always been life and death, an endlessly serious pastime. Every once in a while it had turned into a three stooges routine, but that had been a rare and precious deviation in the training schedule.

"That's even more impressive than Jim Middleton stealing Patterson's wife right out from under his nose. I've always said that was the slickest move I've ever seen, but I may have to reassess." Tom cackled, then looked at Ed. They both paused and then simultaneously said, "Nah."

"It was pretty slick, though!" Ed added, joining in Tom's laughter, although more quietly than his buddy.

Sam just rolled his eyes. Ms. Nichols hadn't been kidding. The entire time they were playing, he and Dean had been regaled with every sordid bit of wife-stealing, embezzling, drinking, crazy-wife, crazy-kid, embarrassing illness, habit, or incident, the two ancient golfers could come up with. They knew they had a captive audience and, better yet, an audience that hadn't already heard their stories a million times.

Dean kept skillfully guiding the two back toward the names on the list, occasionally coming to stand beside Sam just so he could pull another name or two off of it to prompt the geezers toward their real area of interest. So far, all they knew was that Dean was a natural and the men on the list were a hodgepodge of good and bad; some even-tempered, some bad-tempered, some decent businessmen, or doctors or lawyers, etc, while others were known to be downright crap at their chosen professions. Some had big distinguished families. Others were part of dying lines.

In short, they had a big load of nothing.

As they approached the 17th hole, Sam ordered all of his errant thoughts away and focused on his immediate surroundings. He noticed that the group playing in front of them simply bypassed the entire hole, driving their cart right on to the 18th.

All of the deaths had been halfway down the fairway near the small lake. Sam wasn't sure why no one on the other side of the water was ever bothered. The victims were all on this side, on this hole, and all suffered from apparent heart attacks. Honestly, Sam wasn't sure exactly what had killed them. Heart failure was a nice cover for a whole lot of problems.

"How brave are you, Dean?" Tom asked as he got out of their cart.

Dean, too, was now focusing on his surroundings rather than chatting up the two old men, or worrying about his golf game. The question, however, seemed to give him pause, although if Sam hadn't happened to be watching him, he doubted he'd have even seen it. Dean had spent forty years in hell, he'd come back to face what he'd done wrong, faced everything they had in the past few months, and yet Sam saw him pause.

"Yes, Dean." Ed eyed him. "Just how brave are you?"

A cheesy grin spread across Dean's face. "I kill't me a b'ar when I was only three." Sam snorted. Apparently Dean was going old school to impress the two men.

Ed rolled his eyes, but Tom cackled again happily. "You hear that, Ed? He's the king of the wild frontier."

"Everything but the camping," Dean added, gazing carefully into the trees that edged the small lake. "Hate camping."

"Well, it's a good thing," Tom said. "This hole has apparently decided it doesn't like golfers anymore. It's killing them off right and left."

"You trying to get the course shut down?" Ed chastised. "Too many fat old businessmen running around on the course these days. They get all excited and then they're surprised when they have a heart attack. In my day…"

"Oh, quit whining about the old days, you old coot. You're up." Tom turned to Sam. "Make yourself useful, Muscles, and find Eddie his driver."

Sam gritted his teeth, and did as he was asked. They all remained silent while Ed teed off, and then Tom. "Your turn, Dean."

"You guys go ahead." He smiled ruefully. "We're getting too close to the clubhouse. If my boss catches me, it'll be my last day on the job for sure. Can't let all my lessons go to waste."

"Better not," Tom answered. "We're going to take credit for you when you turn pro."

At that Dean did laugh. "I know you guys are good teachers, but I wouldn't go that far."

For once, Tom didn't laugh. He just looked at Dean, as if really studying him. "You have a rare gift. I've only seen it a couple of times. You're just a caddy now, but if you find something that could be your purpose in life, you shouldn't let it pass you by."

"Don't worry, Tom," Dean answered tiredly, and suddenly Sam could almost see a weight descend on Dean's shoulders. It had lifted a bit while Dean was playing, but it quickly resettled. "I've got my purpose already."

Tom raised an eyebrow, a sly smile curving his lips. "That's what we hear." Before Dean could say anything, Tom turned and began marching toward the cart, for Dean to drive him down to wherever his ball had ended up.

Sam edged closer to Dean. "You gonna run away and join the PGA?"

"Yeah, Sam." Dean smiled sweetly. "About the same time you order a clown for your next birthday party."

Sam pursed his lips. "Golf clubs aren't innately terrifying."

"So we stick with the demons, because they're all sunshine and rainbows." Dean shook his head. "You ever think our priorities are a little off?"

Sam snorted. "Maybe a little."

"Yeah, and maybe Cas has a _little_ problem in the comedy department."

"You two coming or not?" Tom called.

Dean drove the cart down the path toward the trees and the lake beyond. They all got out in the general area of where the balls had landed. Ed's was comfortably in the fairway, but Tom's had wandered back into the trees, sitting nestled down in the bark.

"Nice shot, there, Tommy," Ed said, with a definite snicker. "How are you gonna get out of that one?"

"Dean, what do you think?" Tom asked.

"I think you may have picked the worst spot on the course to hit your ball," Dean replied. There was a tree sitting right in the way of getting the ball back onto the fairway and more trees were blocking his way toward the hole. The only way was to hit the ball back the way they'd come and then go forward from there.

"You could just kick the ball out from behind the tree, Tom. I don't mind." Sam looked at Ed and saw that he had a mischievous glint in his eye.

Tom glared at Ed, and Sam could have sworn some silent bit of communication passed between the two men, but he had no way of knowing what it meant. "You play the ball where it lies." Tom sniffed derisively. "Were you raised in a barn? The rules are the rules and a gentleman always abides by the rules."

"Just making sure you remembered," Ed said with an amused twist to his thin lips.

Sam felt a tingle, a cold chill running down his spine. He turned toward the lake and barely held in a gasp. "Dean," he said quietly. His brother immediately turned and they both fell very still.

The ghost crawled out of the lake on hands and knees. It flickered, but the effect was strange because it was standing in broad daylight. It was a man in typical golf attire, polo shirt and dark slacks. His body was ruined and bloated like what happened to someone left in the water after death. Even if they found a picture of someone who'd died, they might not be able to make a positive ID. He was just too deformed by the effects of the time the body spent in the water.

Dean scowled. "How come we never get any _clean_ ghosts?"

The ghost did not move forward. It just stood by the edge of the lake. After a second or two, it turned its head in Tom's direction. Sam saw the ghost's face twist in what he imagined was hatred if the face weren't already so distorted.

Dean began to edge back to the golf bags a few feet away where they'd managed to stash some salt. Sam knew Dean had a gun in his oversized pocket. The iron rounds would work temporarily, but they would draw a lot more attention than they wanted to this early in the game.

"Stop snickering, Ed," Tom snapped, although there was no real heat behind it. "Only girls and six year olds snicker like that."

Sam saw him line up his shot and chip the ball out into the fairway and back away from the hole. The ghost started forward, and Sam braced himself, although he had no clue what he was going to do other than try to get the golfers out of the ghost's way.

Tom and Ed paid absolutely no attention. They both walked back out of the trees toward their respective golf balls, oblivious to the danger behind them. Sam and Dean both placed themselves in the path of the ghost, blocking it from Tom and Ed.

"Dude, it's broad daylight," Dean said, amazed. "The freaks are supposed to come out at night."

"I'd say he's _really_ pissed off," Sam replied.

"Are you two going to bring us something to hit these balls with or do we have to throw them at the hole?" Tom called.

The ghost stopped walking forward, and nodded, though at what, Sam had no idea. He and Dean began backing out of the trees, keeping their eyes on the ghost. At the same time, the ghost turned and began walking back to the lake.

Sam set the bags down beside the men, but kept his eyes on the ghost that was still shambling toward the water. It didn't pause at the edge, but simply walked back in, its movement making no ripples in the water, until finally it disappeared.

"Guess the guy's been putting up with these two for months," Dean muttered. "No reason to go after them now."

"But what about the other people coming through here behind us?" Sam asked at the same volume.

Dean looked up at him and raised an eyebrow. "Guess they better make sure they stay on the fairway."

* * *

_More soon..._


	3. Chapter 3

**Fork in the Road**

Summary: A ghost is killing golfers, forcing Sam and Dean to pose as caddies... Post _It's a Terrible Life_

_Thanks for the lovely reviews. Today, Sam and Dean have to head back to the course. A caddy's work is never done..._

Chapter Three

* * *

Sam awoke to the sound of the motel room door closing. He opened one eye and saw that Dean's bed was empty, but that was quickly followed by the realization that he wasn't alone. Dean must have been coming in instead of going out. It wasn't completely unusual. Dean's sleeping patterns tended toward the erratic since he'd come back.

"Dude, you gonna sleep all day?"

Sam felt something bounce off his head. He turned over to see Dean had tossed the phone book at him. He groaned and stretched, then promptly threw the phone book back at his brother. "Why are you up so early?"

"I was at the country club," Dean said, and Sam could hardly miss that he was smiling from ear to ear in an almost embarrassed way.

"You went to the lake?" Sam sat up, alarmed. "By yourself? Why?"

Dean's eyes widened. "Calm down. You were up late researching so I thought I'd let you sleep. I was playing a round before the course opened."

"You were… You were _golfing_?" Sam asked, afraid he was still asleep.

Dean just shrugged. "I met this great old guy named Arnie. He gave me some good pointers."

"He gave you some…" Sam rubbed a hand over his face, trying to wake up. "Dean, are you all right?"

"What? I can't use a little stress relief?" Dean frowned. "Dude, I got to go out and hit things with a stick for a couple of hours and no one told me I was a sociopath. It made for a nice change, ok?"

Sam just shook his head. "Whatever… You find out anything new?"

"I found out Arnie could hand my ass to me no matter how many games or how many years we played, but other than that? Not so much…"

Sam huffed out a light laugh. "Ghost didn't show?"

"Oh, right." Dean snapped his fingers. "You know, there was that bloated zombie guy shambling around the 17th. Forgot to mention that earlier."

"It's too early to pretend you're funny."

Dean smirked. "It's never too early to bring the funny."

Sam snorted and scooted to the side of the bed. "So, I looked at the names on the list last night. As far as I can tell, they've got almost nothing in common except the country club."

"And that they're dead. Or at least gave it the old college try."

"That, too." Sam sighed.

"So, we've got nothing."

"Pretty much."

"But Arnie says I'm a natural." Dean grinned broadly. "So I got that goin' for me. Which is nice."

Sam rolled his eyes, but couldn't help a smile from peeking at the corners of his mouth. "Dude, enough with the _Caddyshack_ quotes."

Dean's smile broadened. "Can't help it. It's a Cinderella story. Outta nowhere..." Sam just raised an eyebrow but offered no other reaction, and Dean cleared his throat in the awkward silence. "Come on, man. Get up. We've been assigned to a couple of businessmen in half an hour."

* * *

Dean sighed for what felt like the hundredth time. These two businessmen were kicking his ass.

One of them was just lousy. He couldn't hit the hole if he was standing right over it and they told him he could drop the ball in. At least he knew it and was just enjoying himself. The other guy wasn't half bad, but he wasn't half good either. Dean didn't know much, but he knew enough to see that the guy kept picking the wrong clubs, and he almost always hit off to the right. It was frustrating just to watch the two suck so badly.

Tom and Ed were crazy, but at least they could play. It might take them an extra stroke to get to the hole, but they got there without looking like a couple of jackasses that didn't know one end of the club from another.

"I kept telling them, they were trying to flog a dead horse," said Kevin, aka the guy who wouldn't know the right club from his own ass. "They were trying to sell in a closed market. Until they found an open market to develop the new line, they weren't gonna get anywhere. But does anyone listen to me?"

With every fiber of his being, Dean wished he didn't have to listen to this pompous jerk. The guy ran his mouth nonstop and apparently thought he was Warren Buffett and Donald Trump combined. All the businessman mumbo jumbo he'd been spouting since the second they stepped on the course was making Dean crazy.

Dean hated what he'd been like for those weeks as Dean Smith, Sales and Marketing Exec Extraordinaire. He'd been a company man in every sense possible, working from dawn to dusk, living and breathing the business. He'd cared about _paperwork_. He'd had custom suits and the newest electronic gadgets and meetings about their new company "paradigm." If he ever heard that word again, he and Marigold were going to have another _meeting_ with whoever said it.

Dean was still pissed that, yet again, he'd been taken to live in some alternate reality and they hadn't even had the decency to let him keep his favorite sawed-off shotgun. He got to keep _Jo_ in his dream family, but not Marigold? That was just wrong. Or maybe that was the point. Sneaky angels.

In any case, Dean was kind of hoping "Wrong Club" Kevin would manage to come up with the magic word before the end of his round. The jerk had managed to come up with every other business-type buzz word and Dean was aching to acquaint him with some rock salt.

The problem, Dean admitted, was that another part of him _missed_ being that big shot executive. In some ways it hadn't been totally different. There were goals that had to be met, and he'd charmed, cajoled, or demanded with everything he had until he got the job done. He hadn't been able to use a shotgun, but for a few weeks, he'd been… liberated.

Dean had been in control again. He had things to do and he got them done. Things had never gotten out of hand. He'd been on top of the situation and the worst disaster that had snuck up was a missing bit of paperwork or the delivery service sent the wrong sandwich for his lunch. Not until people had started dying had he felt like he couldn't handle whatever came his way.

He'd had a family, imaginary though they might have been, a family that was proud of how well he was doing in the big city, instead of watching him warily to see if he was going to have a breakdown or worse, thinking that he required looking after because he was too broken, too weak to help get the job done.

For a few weeks, Dean had been able to _dream_. Every night, he'd happily gone to bed early and slept the sleep of the innocent. For a few weeks, Dean had been free from hell. No memories, no flashbacks, no seals, no crushing guilt, no fear.

Sure there had been that tiny, little niggling thought that there was something missing, but Dean had the feeling that smarmy angel who'd orchestrated the whole thing had purposely left a chink in his armor for his old life to sneak in. He'd certainly left a big one for Sam so he could get the ball rolling and drag Dean, albeit willingly, back into hunting.

Just for a while, there hadn't been any seals, no demons, no _mission_ or any other weight the universe could manage to balance on his shoulders. There hadn't been the never ending worry about whatever crap Sam had gotten himself into that was so bad he couldn't tell Dean about it. Dean had told him about his last ten years in hell. He'd told him he broke the first seal. He'd admitted it all. What could be worse than _that_ that Sam couldn't tell him about?

"Dean?"

Dean's eyes snapped up to see that Sam was watching him worriedly. "Wrong Club" Kevin was looking at him funny, too. "Hey. Your buddy gonna hyperventilate some more or can we move on to the next hole?"

Sam gave the jerk a glare that was possibly one of the reasons for global warming and the guy backed off. "Dean?"

"Guess we better move before we get fired, huh?" Dean said, working hard to control his expression.

So what? So life was hard and his vacation was over. So he had a mission. Somebody had to do it, whether the job was too hard or not.

Dean hurried forward, took the putter from Kevin, retrieved the ball and placed the pin back in the cup. By the time he turned, Kevin and his buddy were already headed for the cart, but Sam was still just standing there staring at him. Dean ignored him and headed for the cart. They were about to walk up on the 17th hole, and he needed his game face. After a moment, Sam shook his head and followed.

"Wrong Club" Kevin's buddy teed off first and managed a decent enough shot, catching the rough on the edge of the fairway closest to the lake, but outside the tree line. Proving once again that if the Winchesters didn't have bad luck, they'd have no luck at all, Kevin sliced the ball just like he'd been doing since they started, only this one was a doozy and went right into the trees within just a few yards of the water.

Kevin immediately started swearing and vowing up and down that his club must be defective. Dean tuned him out as they headed down the cart path, and continued to ignore his ranting as he walked toward the lake to look for the ball. Sam headed off with the other guy to check out his next shot, while Kevin followed Dean into the trees.

"Over here," Dean called, once he'd found the ball. He stood with his back to the fairway so that he could keep an eye on the water as well as his golfer.

Another round of swearing followed as soon as Kevin got a look at where his ball had landed. It wasn't too different from where Tom had ended up the day before. If Kevin were capable of a brilliant shot, he might get through the trees, but he and Dean both knew, he was nowhere near capable of a shot like that. The best he could do was try to pitch out into the fairway and go from there.

Dean knew he was in trouble when Kevin looked up, the word "shifty" practically tattooed on his forehead. He looked toward his buddy standing out in the fairway making sure he wasn't watching, then bent over to grab the ball.

"Don't do it," Dean warned.

"If you know what's good for you, you'll keep your mouth shut," Kevin hissed.

"See the thing is, I've never been good at either of those things." Dean felt himself turn cold, heading into that place inside him where he sized up an enemy. "I hate cheaters."

"You're paid to carry the clubs," Kevin said, his eyes narrowing. "That's it. So shut it." He shot another look toward his buddy, who was still setting up his own shot, then bent over again, grabbed the ball and tossed it toward the fairway where it was still inside the tree line, but he'd have a clear shot.

"Ya know," Dean said, "I don't give a crap about a tip. I do care that you're a cheating bastard. You also suck at the game. Just in general."

"Shut up and give me my three iron," the man snapped.

Dean gritted his teeth. "One, you need a five iron, not that you're gonna get anywhere near the hole. Two, I'm thinkin'... no. You're on your own. I'm going back to the clubhouse. You can haul your own bag since you can't be bothered to play a fair game."

"You will do what you're paid to do and you will keep your mouth shut."

"Is there a problem?" Sam came through the trees, a hulking, glowering figure as he approached. Kevin's buddy followed behind him warily.

"Yeah," Dean said. "Kevin, here, cheated. He picked his ball up from over here and threw it over there."

"Dean," Sam said, turning his frown on him.

"What?" Dean demanded, wincing that he sounded a little too close to a petulant five year old. "He cheated!"

Sam came to stand in front of him and dropped his voice. "Does it really matter? We're trying to do a job here, man. Who gives a crap?"

"But he cheated," Dean insisted. He chose to ignore that the vast majority of their lives were spent lying and stealing, cheating and conning. That was for survival. This was a _game_. He and Sam didn't get much chance to just mess around, but he didn't cheat. A game was a game and there were rules. If anything, he let Sam win every once in a while. The kid needed to feel he was doing well.

"So what?" Sam demanded.

"You don't care?" Dean could feel a headache forming. He stared up at his brother, saw the same face that he'd known for years, and wondered how things had managed to get so far out of whack.

There was a time when Sam would have been the one ticked at the guy for cheating and Dean would have been the one telling him to let it go. Sam was the upstanding citizen and Dean was the one who'd do anything to finish the job. But now... constantly fighting with Sam, worrying about _how_ they got the job done as much as _if_ they got the job done... Sam wandering farther and farther from everything their dad had taught him, and everything they'd always held dear, the _rules_ of what made them the good guys and the monsters the bad guys...

The fact that Sam didn't care that this guy was cheating was breaking Dean's heart.

Dean wasn't sure when he'd first known something was wrong. Maybe when he had to talk Sam out of sacrificing a virgin to save themselves. But maybe it had started even earlier than that. Sam had started lying to him almost as soon as he knew about Dean's deal. Sam thought he had to do it to save him. Dean hadn't wanted him messing with the deal, so Sam had lied, and then he'd gotten more desperate and he'd kept lying and he'd gotten more desperate in his attempts to find a way to save Dean. Sam had gotten better and better at keeping things from him until Dean had managed to miss that Sam was sneaking out with that bitch, Ruby, and using his powers. Yeah, Dean had taken a forty year vacation in between, but that was no excuse. Dean had given his brother the initial push and Sam hadn't just backed off. He'd backed up and fallen over a cliff.

"So you don't care about the rules now?" Dean asked quietly. "Don't care how the game's played?"

"Dean," Sam answered through clenched teeth. "We have bigger things to worry about right now than causing trouble with this guy."

"So we're supposed to let the bad guys walk as long as it's not a big deal?" Dean replied, his voice dropping even lower to almost a growl. "Maybe we bend the rules as long as it gets us where we want to go?"

Sam shifted on his feet, his hands coming up, held out as if to ward Dean off, or at least the conversation. "Can we not do this now? We're on a job."

"I know," Dean stated coldly. "And I care about how the job gets done. I've got enough bad mojo going on in my life. I don't need it getting any worse over something this stupid."

"Dean, this is a _game_."

"And when it's not a game?" Dean asked, his anger fading into weariness, the sudden weight on his shoulders making him want to sit down right where he was and not move again. "When _does_ it matter, Sam? Where's the line? Do you even know anymore?"

"Dean, he's cheating at _golf_. That's kinda low on the list of the crap I care about at this point."

"Or maybe you've thrown the rule book out all together," Dean remarked grimly.

Sam bristled, looking like he was about to blow a gasket. "Dean, you have no idea-"

"Exactly, Sam. I don't have any idea. Not even Cas can tell me what you've been up to." That was what scared Dean so badly. He just didn't _know_. Sam was up to something that had given him the juice to take down _Alistair_ without so much as a howdy. Worse, Sam was hiding it from him, and lying about it. This wasn't just bad. This was Godzilla-in-Tokyo bad.

"Dean."

"Whatever, Sam. Let's go."

"_Dean_," Sam said more forcefully, and Dean looked up, his gaze immediately following where Sam was looking.

The ghost was at the edge of the lake, just walking back in and disappearing. Dean's eyes flew back to the golfers who were now standing out on the fairway, apparently arguing. Dean hurried toward them with Sam at his side. Neither of the men looked like they'd seen the ghost, rather Kevin just looked like he wished he'd never decided to play golf today.

The two men stopped talking as they came out of the trees. "Are you two idiots ready to go now?" Kevin demanded.

Dean started forward, but Sam stopped him with an arm across his chest. "Yeah, we're ready."

"Then get me my three iron."

"You mean your five," Dean offered innocently. He could feel the tension in his muscles radiating up his neck, intensifying his already throbbing headache.

"I meant what I said," the man snapped angrily. "You think you know better than I do? You're just a caddy, and a crappy one at that."

"Dude, I could beat you with nothing but a sand wedge and a putter."

"Dean, don't-"

"Shut up, Sam."

Kevin's buddy was now actively chuckling and it was making the guy even madder, and even more embarrassed. "You're on, smart ass. Tomorrow morning, 10 A.M."

Dean just raised an eyebrow. "Fine. I'll be there." He got the club out and handed it to the guy. When the man held out his hand to take it, Dean saw it. Sam made a noise and Dean knew he'd seen it, too.

Dean didn't let the club go and he got a good look at the red marks on Kevin's hands. They rested right where a golfer gripped the club. Kevin ripped the club out of Dean's grip and stalked over to his ball. He didn't look like he was having a heart attack, although at the moment, Dean was starting to doubt how quickly he wanted to clear up this mess.

Sam walked up to stand beside Dean. "He's marked," Sam observed unnecessarily. "He's next."

Dean watched as Kevin settled into his stance and struck the ball, hitting it into a bunker to the back and right of the green. "Yeah." He pursed his lips and watched Kevin furiously slam his club into the ground over and over. "He sucks, too."

* * *

_More soon..._


	4. Chapter 4

**Fork in the Road**

Summary: A ghost is killing golfers, forcing Sam and Dean to pose as caddies... Post _It's a Terrible Life_

_Just a little bit of brotherly turmoil to go with the golf... But we have a ghost to take out, so on we go!_

Chapter Four

* * *

Dean strode into the motel room and set the fast food bags down on the table. Sam was sitting on his bed with his computer on his lap. He was stooped over, frowning in concentration with his hair falling into his eyes as he studied the screen.

"You know, you can change the text size to the big stuff if you're getting too old to see it," Dean commented.

Sam just kept typing. "Shut up. I'm working."

"Dude, if you haven't already figured out how to work while I'm talking, we're in serious trouble."

"I learned." Sam let out a directed puff of air to get some of the hair out of his face. "It's just easier if you don't talk."

"Yeah, I bet," Dean muttered. Sam was still pissed at him for throwing a fit. Maybe it hadn't been the best time and maybe he'd been overreacting, but the situation with Sam and his increasingly screwy behavior just kept getting worse and worse and Dean's admittedly crap coping techniques reared their ugly head at all the wrong times.

Sometimes, he wondered why he bothered at all. Sam wasn't really listening to a word he said, not anymore. Dean had gone from being the big brother who knew everything, to the damaged thing Sam had to haul around.

Dean clenched his hands into fists, then realized what he was doing and relaxed them. "You keep doin' what you're doin'. I'll just sit here in my corner and keep my trap shut."

Sam did look up then. "What was that?"

Dean shook his head. "Nothin'." Sam would probably like nothing better than for him to shut up, but Dean just kept at him. He knew it was straining their already strained relationship, but he couldn't help it. Letting it go just wasn't possible. Dean knew he had less than a snowball's chance, but Sam... Sam could still turn it around. It wasn't too late. Sam just had blinders on. He couldn't see what he was doing to himself. He was convinced that Ruby was on his side and if Dean knew anything, he knew that a demon could lie and lie and tell you everything you thought you wanted to hear, and then turn it all against you. They could get you so turned around you didn't care about right and wrong. Even if you did somehow manage to remember what you were doing was wrong, you forgot to be _ashamed_, at least until it was already too late.

Maybe if he told Sam some of what had happened to him? It wouldn't take much. Just a story or two and that would convince him what demons could do. All Dean had to do was open his mouth and tell him. That was it and maybe Sam would understand. He would stop all of this before it got any worse.

Dean's heart was pounding. He opened his mouth and immediately shut it again. Right. Simple. Just tell Sam.

_Weak_.

_Holding me back_.

Dean cleared his throat. "So you find anything?" He grabbed the fast food bag, sat down on the edge of the other bed, and dug out a couple of burgers.

"Maybe." Sam kept squinting at the screen.

Dean grunted impatiently. "And?"

"Well, we've got all these current deaths, but I can't find anything they have in common so I started looking for older ones to see if anything popped up. Turns out that hole has managed at least a death a year for about fourteen years."

"And no one noticed everybody had a heart attack on the exact same spot?"

"If they did, no one talked about it."

Dean frowned. "So do we have a patient zero, or what?"

"That's the thing." Sam set the laptop aside and threw his legs over the edge of the bed so he could face Dean. "Did that ghost look like a heart attack victim to you?"

"Not unless he had a heart attack and fell in the lake and no one ever found him."

"If he'd just had a heart attack, they would've come across the body. It's a golf course. There are people walking around that lake constantly and he'd have floated. According to the coroner, though, these guys didn't really have heart attacks. Their hearts were healthy, relatively speaking. They just stopped."

"So you're thinking he's in the lake, but somebody put him there where no one would see?"

"I gave up on all the deaths we know about and started looking for missing persons."

Dean could tell from the look on his brother's face he'd found something, so he just kept working his way through his burger and waited.

"The president of the club went missing fourteen years ago." Sam looked decidedly smug.

"That so?"

Sam turned the laptop toward Dean so he could see the article. Dean gave it a cursory glance, but just gestured for Sam to move it along.

"His wife told the police he left for the club that morning like he always did, but he never came home. They questioned the employees, and he was apparently there all morning, doing what he always did, then his secretary claimed he left for lunch, and never returned to the office. She wasn't concerned because he often played a round of golf with one of the members after lunch."

"Anyone in particular?" Dean asked curiously.

"Not that they mentioned in the article."

Dean sighed and threw his hamburger aside. "So now what?"

Sam shrugged. "We have to find the body."

"Oh, man." Dean patted his pockets. "I left the scuba gear in my other pants."

Sam gave him his patented you're-so-not-funny look. "It's a manmade lake. It isn't that deep."

"Deep enough to dump a body in." Dean frowned.

"Club policy forbids anyone from collecting balls from any of the water hazards. Wanna guess how old that rule is?"

"About fourteen years?"

"Yup."

"We know who put that rule in place, by any chance?"

"No way to tell," Sam answered. "Only reason I noticed it was because there was a letter to the editor complaining about it. Some guy supplemented his income by collecting balls and selling them. Something about the rich guys keeping the little man down."

Dean stood and sighed again. "I hate swimming."

"That's because you can't carry a gun in the water."

He snorted. "And here I thought it was because I nearly drowned when Dad took us on that trip to Minnesota."

"Land of a billion lakes," Sam said through a grin.

"Thanks for the sympathy," Dean replied wryly.

"You're the one who fell out of the boat."

"I _fell_?" Dean asked through gritted teeth.

Sam's brow furrowed in confusion. "Yeah."

"Dude, Dad was using me as bait. He didn't think the thing was that fast and it dragged me halfway across the lake before he killed it." It was one of the few times his father had ever actually apologized to him. He'd screwed up badly and nearly got his son killed. Of course, it hadn't stopped him from using Dean as bait the very next time the need arose.

Sam looked shocked. "You never told me. You came back to the motel looking like a drowned rat and said you fell out of the boat."

"Well, duh." Did Sam think he was an idiot? There were a lot of things that went on that Sam never had a clue about. Worked the other way too for that matter. Sam had a whole lot of _normal_ things going on that Dad never knew about. "You already hated him. You think I was gonna give you ammunition like that?"

"But-"

"Whatever. Dad's dead and we've got a lake to search." As traitorous as the thought was, sometimes, Dean was grateful their dad was gone. What would he have thought of his sons? One had jumpstarted the apocalypse and the other was bosom buddies with a demon, getting strong enough to drop something like Alistair. Dean grabbed his keys and headed for the door. "Come on."

* * *

"So this guy…"

"Mitchell Wray."

"Mitch… We're sure he's in the lake here?" Dean asked.

"You got a better idea, I'm all ears. He went missing while he was golfing with somebody and everybody who gets whacked, gets it right here off the seventeenth."

Dean set his flashlight down on the ground, and gave the water lapping at his feet another glare for good measure. Freaking lakes. He didn't give a crap if it was a manmade golf version of a kiddy wading pool. This was barely a step above camping.

Dean toed off his boots and then pulled off his socks as well, stuffing them into his boots. Sam, he noted, was doing the same. Dean briefly considered stripping off his jeans, but there was no way he was going to get caught wandering around a golf course in the middle of the night in his skivvies. He'd just have to deal with a soggy pair of jeans.

Sam had apparently decided the same, because he was already wading out into the water without even bothering to roll up his pants. He almost immediately stepped on something and listed dangerously to the side before righting himself.

"Golf ball," he said in annoyance. "Gotta be a minefield out here."

"That and there's a corpse."

"That, too."

"Watch your toes."

Sam spared a moment to glare at him before turning back and heading out farther, shining his flashlight down into the murky water. "You gonna help me or just stand there and offer suggestions?"

Dean shrugged although Sam didn't see it. "I can do both. I multitask."

He waded out into the water, almost immediately encountering the same problem with golf balls that Sam had. The little suckers were determined to make sure he was soaked from head to foot before the night was over.

They quickly fell into an easy pattern to search the water as well as they could. As Sam had said, the lake was no more than waist to chest deep at any point. It was enough to make sure that they couldn't see much of anything, and that they were nice and wet while getting absolutely nowhere. Other than fourteen years' worth of lost balls, and the occasional club that had been tossed into the lake in a fit of rage, they hadn't found anything.

"You know this is useless, right?"

"You wanna give up, just go sit on the bank." Sam snapped the order, shades of their father's voice ringing in Dean's ears. His brother was still mad at him from before, and Dean could almost feel the derision. He'd just wanted to whine a bit and Sam had immediately told him he could sit it out and Sam would take care of it.

_Weak_.

_I can take out demons you're too scared to go near._

Sometimes Dean thought that even in his siren-induced spouting, Sam had been pulling punches. Dean knew what Sam really would have said if he'd been laying it all on the line. He'd have called him a coward. It was the worst insult a Winchester could manage, and just the thought that Sam was thinking of him that way was enough to shred Dean's insides. It hurt more than almost anything he'd ever felt, and these days, that was saying something. Dean half-expected the water around him to turn red, Sam had so neatly twisted the knife.

Contempt. That was what it came down to. Before, Sam might have thought of Dean as his mindless, soldier brother who followed their father no matter where he led. Dean was loud and lewd and an embarrassment to his brother in many ways. One thing he'd never been, however, was a coward.

That was gone now. Hell had torn away that last pillar and the entire house had crumbled. Dean wasn't a help anymore. He was a burden. Sam thought he was on his own. He'd convinced himself of it while Dean was gone, and couldn't seem to snap himself out of thinking that way even when Dean was standing with him shoulder to shoulder.

"I've got this, Dean."

"And leave you to have all the fun? I wouldn't dream of it. You might get all pruny and require first aid."

Sam just rolled his eyes, but Dean saw a very tiny hint of a smirk appear. "I think I can handle it."

"Nah, gotta keep you hydrated. No one wants to see a pruny sasquatch. I'm here for you, man."

And he would be, whether Sam wanted it or not. Sam obviously thought that whatever he was up to was going to get him through the big end game, but Dean knew better. The demons hadn't shown all their cards yet. They never did, not until it was too late. Sam thought he was going to be ahead of the curve, that whatever he was doing to strengthen his powers would give him the edge to win, but Dean knew that wasn't how the game was played, and that certainly wasn't how the game was going to be won.

Dean turned toward his brother thinking maybe he'd heard something, although maybe it was more a feeling than anything else.

"Sam!"

Mitchell Wray was standing directly beside Sam. He set his hand on Sam's arm and almost immediately Sam sucked in a pained gasp. He brought his hand up and set it over his heart, fisting his fingers in his shirt. Eyes wide and panicked, he looked up at Dean.

"Sam, no!"

The ghost grasped Sam around his neck, almost like a lifeguard would, except the ghost smoothly pulled Sam backward, and disappeared beneath the rippling water.

The water smoothed out immediately, and if Dean hadn't known that his brother had been standing there only a second before, he never would have guessed.

Dean gripped his flashlight tight, and he dove.

* * *

_More soon..._


	5. Chapter 5

**Fork in the Road**

Summary: A ghost is killing golfers, forcing Sam and Dean to pose as caddies... Post _It's a Terrible Life_

_Allrighty... Dean had just been given another reason to hate swimming..._

Chapter Five

* * *

The water felt like he was swimming through gritty soup. He and Sam had stirred up all kinds of mud in their search and it further obscured his vision. His eyes stung, but he refused to close them. He kept them glued to the last place he'd seen Sam. He wasn't sure if he was following the disturbance in the water as Sam was dragged away, or if he was just imagining it, but he kept going until his lungs ached.

Just as he was sure he was going to have to come up for air, he slammed into Sam. His brother was floating in the water seemingly unconscious. Dean immediately pulled Sam into his arms, chest to chest, and popped up out of the water. Sam's head lolled back and Dean frantically started pulling him toward the shore. Sam's strong heartbeat should have been easy enough to feel, but there was absolutely nothing, and his brother was a dead weight in his arms.

As Dean began to move, he was just as quickly stopped. He pulled again, hard enough that Sam's arms flailed in the water around him. Dean saw that one of Sam's legs was held out awkwardly, and realized he must be caught on something.

Dean kicked at where he thought whatever was holding Sam ought to be and struck something hard. He kicked at it again and it shifted, but when he tugged on Sam, he still wouldn't move. Desperate to get Sam back onto dry land, Dean was forced to let Sam go. He dove back under the water and shone the flashlight to see that Sam's leg was curled through the straps of an oversized golf bag.

Dean furiously shoved it away and came back up for air. Sam had floated off a few feet. Dean lunged to grab him and once again began dragging him toward shore. Dean put everything he had into it, redoubling his efforts when Sam grew heavier and heavier as he pulled him up out of the water.

Sam was all muscle and Dean couldn't help but think he was even heavier than he had been pre-hell. Without Dean there to make sure Sam slacked off sometimes and ate too many cheeseburgers and drank too much, Sam had worked out more and turned into the Terminator. So apparently Sam's drowning due to the fact that he'd turned into an even heavier heavyweight was Dean's fault, too.

Dean leaned down and set his ear against Sam's chest. Nothing.

He sat back up bracing himself to start CPR when he saw Sam's hands which had fallen back to the ground. Dean gritted his teeth angrily, fresh panic blossoming in his chest. Sam had the marks on his hands.

Abandoning CPR for the moment, Dean ran to the duffel bags and pulled out the canister of salt. He jogged back, already unscrewing the lid, and unceremoniously dumped it in a cloud over Sam. His brother might feel like he'd gone for a swim in the ocean instead of the lake, but it would hopefully ward off the ghost.

Dean dropped back to his knees and set his ear over Sam's heart. Maybe a flutter? Or maybe he was imagining it. Dean braced himself over Sam, shoulders directly over his twined hands and let himself fall into the compressions. Dean was already tired and breathing too hard from pulling Sam out of the water, but he was all Sam had and there was no time for a break.

No matter how many times he'd been forced to do CPR it never ceased to surprise him. It always amazed him how much work it was, the pressure it took to get the job done properly and to keep at it despite the odd position and quickly tiring muscles. Afterward, he always managed to block out the feel of the ribs beneath his hands, sometimes creaking, sometimes cracking, as they were forced to collapse in a way they weren't designed to do. It always came back to him in a rush as he knelt, panting, sweating, shoulders and back aching in a desperate effort to keep someone he loved alive.

Dean could only hope that this was mostly supernatural and the salt broke the link with the ghost. Sam hadn't actually been underwater that long and Dean had to believe that all Sam's body needed was a jumpstart to remind it what it was supposed to be doing.

Dean glanced up to see water gurgling up out of Sam's mouth, the CPR acting as a makeshift form of the Heimlich maneuver. He didn't pause, he just kept going, the song _Stayin' Alive_ running through his head. He didn't remember where he'd heard the idea, but the rhythm was supposed to be about perfect for how fast the compressions were supposed to be. It was freaking ridiculous yet helpful at the same time and it was another thing about CPR that always popped up when he was forced to do it. It might also be half the reason he hated disco with a passion even when he wasn't trying to keep Sam from dying.

About the fourteenth compression, Sam coughed, sputtering and spitting water. Dean immediately stopped halfway into the next compression and ordered his shaking muscles to turn Sam onto his side. He let Sam cough and wretch and spit and do whatever else he wanted to do as long as he kept breathing while he did it.

"Sam? Sammy?"

All he got was a groan in response, but it was something at least. Dean stood and almost immediately fell back to his knees. His hands were shaking, but he angrily ignored his body's reaction to the last few panicked minutes. It felt like it had been hours, but he doubted it had even been enough time for a commercial break. Dean stood again and grabbed the little lantern they'd brought with them. He turned it on, then set it next to Sam's head and knelt again in front of him so he could get a good look.

"Sam? You with me?"

Sam groaned again and rolled onto his back. He brought his hands up, his fingers splayed wide across his ribs. "De-" He let out a wet, hacking cough and completely wrapped his arms around his ribcage.

"Take it easy, man. You're ok." Dean set a hand against Sam's back as he once again rolled toward him, ending up with his chest resting against Dean's bent legs, and he wasn't sure how aware Sam really was. Dean just kept one hand on Sam's back, rubbing back and forth, the other he let fall onto Sam's head, to brush his wet hair out of his eyes.

It almost felt weird to be this close to Sam. It seemed like forever since he'd felt the urge to cuff his brother on the shoulder or give him a friendly smack on the head. He guessed maybe that was the problem. Things just hadn't been too friendly lately. It was painful, but true. They were closer to a fistfight breaking out with each of them sitting in their corners waiting for the bell to start the next round, an angel and a demon standing by ready to jump in if it turned into a tag-team event.

"Dean?" Sam coughed again, and groaned as he rolled away from Dean onto his back.

"I'm right here, Sam," he said. His hands had fallen away at Sam's movement and he replaced one on Sam's arm. "How you doin'?"

"Chest hurts." He grimaced.

"Well, we match at least." Dean sat back on the ground hard, his legs out straight in front of him. "Cause I'm about two seconds away from a freakin' heart attack."

They both remained silent for a minute as their breathing returned to normal. "What happened?" Sam finally asked.

"Ghost carried you off. Weren't breathing when I dragged you out of the water. Your ribs are gonna hurt for a few."

Sam smacked his lips and Dean saw him blink in confusion. "There a reason I feel like a giant salt lick?"

Dean snorted. "There are so many ways to answer that..."

"Dean."

"Plus just the name... salt lick..."

"My heart stop?"

"Little bit." Dean leaned over and thumped Sam lightly on the chest, making his brother groan. "But you're all better now. And I," he paused for effect, "have an idea."

"What?"

Sam half sat up, while Dean stood. He was a little shaky for a second, and he waited a few moments for it to pass. His soggy clothes made him feel like he weighed a ton, but he just sighed and headed for the water.

"What are you doing?"

"Stay put. I may have found the source of our problems." Dean waded back into the water, the sandy mud squishing beneath his toes, punctuated by the occasional golf ball trying to topple him.

It took several minutes of searching back and forth for the right spot, but eventually he found the oversized golf bag that had snared Sam. The thing was waterlogged and weighed a ton, but Dean dragged it back to shore nevertheless. He heard Sam snicker when he stepped on a golf ball and went under again, but he finally managed to lug the thing back onto the bank. Water poured out of the golf bag and Sam scooted closer.

Dean pointed his flashlight into the bag and immediately grunted. Bones.

"That what I think it is?" Sam asked since he couldn't see inside from where he was sitting.

"Mitch." Dean nodded. "I'm thinking he had the world's crappiest day on the links. What do you think?"

"How did he even fit in there? From the pictures, the guy was thin but-"

"Well, the bag _is_ Rodney Dangerfield size. Doesn't have the built in bar, though." Dean shook his head. "Shame. I could really use a drink." He shone the light into the bag again, and although he couldn't be sure, the skeleton looked like the man had been stuffed inside in a tortuous position and a few of the bones looked broken.

"I'm thinking he jammed him in there and it wasn't pretty," Dean observed.

"There any salt left after you dumped it all over me?" Sam asked wryly.

"Pardon me," Dean sniffed, "but you were the one who said he wasn't worried about getting pruny. Next time I'll leave you to have your heart attack so you can stay properly hydrated."

He was trying to keep his tone light, but he wasn't really feeling it. The image of Sam, lifeless, no heart beat, was one of the images that had plagued him for the year before he went to hell, and had been used against him _in_ hell. Dean just had no way of looking at it that he could joke about.

"Admit it. You thought it was funny to salt me like a fish."

"Yeah, Sam. Nothing funnier than lookin' at a dead brother, is there."

When Dean could bring himself to glance at his brother, Sam looked like was going to throw up, and Dean doubted it was from the near-drowning. He sighed. They just couldn't seem to quit hurting each other, over and over.

"WHAT ARE YOU TWO IDIOTS DOING?"

Dean whipped around, jumping to his feet and moving to stand over Sam, who was slower to respond. He got to his knees and Dean clamped a hand around his upper arm to help him, then kept it there to make sure he remained standing.

"President Warren, good to see you," Dean offered politely, although he'd really like to boot him in the ass and tell him to get lost. The man looked like he'd just rolled out of bed, and Dean wished he'd stayed there.

"I said what are you two idiots doing out here?" He glanced toward the golf bag and then back to the pair of them. "You're supposed to be protecting the golfers. Who are here during the _day_."

"We're taking care of your problem," Dean snapped. "Somebody killed this guy, here," he pointed toward the bag, "stuffed him in there and dumped him in the lake. Surprise, surprise, it kinda pissed him off."

"How did you know we were here?" Sam asked.

"I live just across the fairway," Warren said. "I got a call from one of the greenskeepers after he saw two _caddies_ swimming in the lake. He was going to call the police, but was worried about calling attention to the course because we've had so much trouble lately. I told him I would look into it myself."

"Whatever," Dean shrugged. "We've got a body and we have to take care of it or he's going to keep taking care of your golfers."

"I don't want anything to do with this." Mr. Warren held up both hands, palms out. "No one is supposed to go in the water hazards. It's against the rules."

Sam hissed in alarm, and Dean's eyes narrowed. "There something you want to tell us?" Dean nearly growled.

"What are you talking about?"

"You've got the marks on your hands."

Warren gasped and turned his hands so he could look at them. "It's not possible! I haven't golfed since..."

Dean nearly groaned as realization struck. "Since about fourteen years ago?" he supplied. "Kinda weird that a guy who's always here doesn't find time to play a round occasionally. Tell me, _President_ Warren, who made the rule no one could go in the water hazards?"

The man didn't answer. He just kept staring at his hands.

"Why didn't you want people in the water around here?" Sam asked.

Warren looked up angrily. "It's opened us up to lawsuits, not to mention we would get all sorts of... people... wandering around making a mess of the course so they could scrounge for balls."

"That's great," Dean said gruffly. "You wanna tell us the real reason? I notice you haven't even bothered to ask if we know whose body's in the golf bag."

"Who is it?" Mr. Warren asked.

Dean shook his head. "Oh, way too late to cover now, buddy."

"Why'd you kill him?" Sam asked.

"Are you insane?" Warren practically bellowed. "I did no such thing!"

"Well, we know at least one thing," Dean said. "You cheated."

That brought Mr. Warren up short. "What?"

"We know why the ghost is killing people. The ones the ghost has killed, all the people who are marked, the ghost goes after them because they cheated."

"It's not possible."

"Oh, it's possible." Dean couldn't help a smirk. "I shoulda noticed something when Tom and Ed made a joke about cheating on this hole when we were here the first day. We actually saw the jackass we were caddying yesterday cheat and the ghost marked him. I'd be surprised if he was still alive."

Dean set aside why Sam had been marked. He wasn't going to think about it right now. They both knew Sam wasn't playing by the rules anymore.

"I told you I haven't played in years."

"But you used to, didn't you?" Sam said, more statement than question. "You were who he was playing with that afternoon. What happened? Did he catch you cheating?"

Warren didn't answer and Dean smirked. "Go ahead. You can say it. We already know."

"He was going to have me barred from the course," Warren said through clenched teeth. "He was such a stickler for what a gentleman would and would't do. The old man was always droning on and on about it. He said I had no business being here if I couldn't play the game _honorably_."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "So you proved him wrong by killing him? Good call." He edged to the side where the weapons were still in the duffel. Neither he nor Sam had re-armed after getting out of the water.

"He would have ruined me," Warren said, his face blotchy and red with fury. "I was his vice-president and he would have just tossed me out without so much as a by-your-leave."

"That's what happens when you don't play by the rules," Dean snapped, and he could feel himself getting angry. He felt like he'd been having this argument over and over and over, just not with this guy. Sure, Dean understood bending the rules, and, yeah, his entire existence was one big felony after another, but there came a point. He thought he and Sam had always agreed on that. He thought they'd both felt it so deeply engrained that there wasn't even a question, just a basic part of their unwritten code that there was a line that a person on the Good Guy team just did not cross.

The ghost appeared right behind Warren and without even a second of hesitation he picked up a large stick and brought it down viciously on the man's head. Warren dropped to the ground and the ghost leaned over him. "I don't have a 3 iron like you did, but this works just as well."

Dean was already pulling Marigold out of his duffel when the ghost held its hand out toward Warren. "I wasn't dead when you put me in the bag," it hissed. "My heart was still beating." It set its hand against Warren's chest, and the man immediately fell deathly still.

The ghost looked up and its eyes zeroed in on Sam. Dean brought his favorite sawed-off shotgun up and fired. Marigold kicked, a comforting pressure that never failed to steady Dean's nerves. He knew the feel of the shotgun and how she worked as well as he knew his car or his cassette collection.

"Sam, get the salt," he ordered, his eyes still on the spot where the ghost had dissolved.

Sam, however, was already ahead of him. He'd picked up the canister of salt and was headed for the golf bag. Sam tipped it up and dumped salt into it. "Lighter fluid!" he called.

Dean leaned down to pick it up, his shotgun held steady while his eyes roamed from side to side, watching for Mitch to show back up. Sam still had salt crusting his damp clothing and Dean hoped it was enough to keep him safe, but he wasn't taking any chances.

Just as Dean stood up again with the can, the ghost appeared directly in front of him and backhanded Marigold, knocking her out of his hands. Dean turned just in time to see her fall into the lake and disappear beneath the water.

"SON. OF. A-"

"Dean! Lighter fluid!"

He turned to throw the lighter fluid to Sam and saw Mitchell appear in front of Sam on the opposite side of the golf bag.

"You're not playing by the rules," the ghost snapped. Sam stumbled back in an attempt to get out of the ghost's reach, but Mitch's hand shot out and grabbed Sam by his shirtfront. Almost immediately the ghost made a horrible screeching noise and released him. Dean could only guess that the salt had done the trick as Sam fell back and landed on the ground.

"A man who cheats doesn't deserve to be here," the ghost said, stalking around the bag toward Sam. "He deserves nothing in this world if he cannot conduct himself like a man."

"I'm doing what has to be done," Sam shouted. Dean looked up from where he'd taken over dousing the bones with lighter fluid and saw that from the look on his brother's face he'd surprised himself that he'd said it aloud.

"Rules are not for when things are going well," Mitchell spat. "They are for when it falls apart. That is when you must hold on to what is right and refuse to budge."

"There's no other choice," Sam said, his expression turning mutinous.

Dean used a fingernail to light off a book of matches and threw it into the golf bag. The thing was soaked, but the lighter fluid made the ragged bag light off like it was a chimney belching out fire and smoke.

The ghost began to flicker, but he kept his gaze bent on Sam who remained on the ground staring up at him as if mesmerized. "Even if you lose, if you follow the right course, you will still have your honor." The ghost exploded in a cloud of smoke and sparks.

Sam looked away, despair written all over his face. "But what good is that if everyone's dead," he whispered.

Dean cleared his throat in discomfort. He just didn't know what to do anymore. He didn't know how to talk to Sam about what was going on. Sam wouldn't tell him what he was doing and it couldn't be anything good if even Cas couldn't figure out what he was up to with Ruby the Aren't-I-friendly-and-helpful demon who had to be lying through her teeth.

Dean walked over to Sam who still wasn't looking at him. He just watched the sodden golf bag as the flames quickly sputtered and died without the accelerant to keep it going. "You all right?"

Sam brought a hand up and laid it against his chest, as if gauging his own well-being. He was breathing too hard and Dean could see the lines of pain on his face, but Sam nodded. Dean held out his hand and after a moment Sam took it and allowed Dean to pull him to his feet. He gasped at the pressure on his ribs, and Dean remained by him silently waiting for the pain to subside enough for Sam to straighten.

Dean, with Sam at his side, walked toward President Warren. The man was flat on his back and appeared very, very dead.

"You wanna call 911 or should I?" Dean asked.

"Phone's back in the car," Sam answered. "Didn't want it to get wet."

"Yeah, me too."

"Looks like his skull's caved it."

"Yup."

"Jerk deserved it."

Dean looked at his brother and remarked, not for the first time, on his brother's bloodthirstiness. In hell, Dean had passed on his bloodthirsty need for pain and vengeance to soul after soul, body after body. _They deserve it_, Alistair had whispered in his ear. Not Dean, he was only there because of the deal, but those people deserved punishment. He knew differently now. He knew how far off course he'd wandered and the world was paying the price. He knew who deserved punishment.

Sam's desperation and anger, his pain and need for revenge had brought him to almost the same point. No sympathy. Dean could see it on Sam's face. Cold. Hard. Merciless. It was like looking at his father all over again.

Dean had been given an angel to pull him out. Who did Sam have? Because Dean had the distinct feeling he was falling down on the job and he didn't know how to fix it.

Dean sighed. "Yeah. What a jerk."

Sam must have heard something in his tone because he bristled. "He hurt a lot of people, Dean."

"I know!" Dean shot back defensively. "I was agreeing with you! He got all kinds of people hurt…" Dean trailed off, freshly horrified. "Mitch knocked her out of my hands!"

"Dean, what's wrong?" Sam demanded.

Dean was already heading for the water at a jog. "M- my shotgun! The bastard knocked her out of my hands and she went in the water!"

Dean waded out in the spot where he'd seen Marigold fall. He briefly looked up to see that Sam was standing exactly where he had been. "Are you gonna help me or not?"

Sam got that look on his face, that look that said he thought his brother was a complete dork, and possibly insane. It was the same look Dean had gotten from Sam since his brother hit his teens and decided Dean wasn't the coolest thing on earth. It was both insulting and comforting at the same time.

"Dude, quit guarding the corpse and get over here and help me find her!" Dean barked.

"Right, Dean. First things first," Sam said with a definite smirk, but he finally started moving.

"Ya got that right." Marigold was his, and he didn't leave what was his when it was in trouble. Sam of all people should know that. If he didn't, then Dean would remember it for both of them.

* * *

_The wrap-up tomorrow..._


	6. Chapter 6

**Fork in the Road**

Summary: A ghost is killing golfers, forcing Sam and Dean to pose as caddies... Post _It's a Terrible Life_

_And now that the little ghost problem is cleared up, we have a little time for the brothers to talk… or not talk as the case may be… I hope you all enjoyed this story and thank you very, very much each and every review, especially to the anonymous reviews I can't respond to._

Chapter Six

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Sam stood back to watch his brother and had to smile. The jerk who'd cheated while Dean was caddying for him had actually shown up for their face-off. True to his boast, Dean was playing the man with nothing more than a wedge and a putter, while Kevin had a full set of clubs.

Sam might be smiling, but Dean was all seriousness. There was no trash talk today, well, less than Sam would have expected anyway. His brother was concentrating on giving Kevin a lesson in humility and nothing else. It was nearly the same mentality that Sam saw Dean wearing when he was on a hunt. He was relaxed, but focused. This wasn't fun. It was a job. He didn't like Kevin and he was on a mission.

The night before, they'd gone back to their room and Sam had fallen asleep to the sights and sounds of Dean _meticulously_ cleaning and oiling his shotgun. Sam's ribs had been hurting so badly he hadn't even had the energy to tease him about it. Much, anyway. Dean's horrified expression when he realized Marigold had gone in the drink was really too good to let pass completely.

When Sam had woken up, he saw that Dean hadn't slept in his bed. It wasn't completely unusual. Dean had better nights than others. When his brother had come in, however, Sam had realized what was up. Dean had been out practicing again. Sam had forgotten about the contest, but Dean certainly hadn't.

From the looks of it, Dean's practice session had paid off. The round wasn't a runaway by any means, but his brother was in the lead and Kevin was sweating bullets. The man hadn't counted on his nobody caddy to have an innate ability to master physical tasks, as well as the ability to strategize like a general marshalling his troops.

Apparently, word of the match had gotten around and they had a bit of a crowd forming, getting bigger and bigger with each hole. Sam watched as Dean teed off, using the wedge as a driver. He'd moved the ball back farther than normal in his stance and he'd altered his swing to get the maximum distance instead of popping the ball up like the club was meant to do, "blading the ball," Dean had explained, whatever the heck that meant. Two days and Dean was already talking like the other golfers, another of his brother's chameleon-like gifts.

Dean was much happier today, especially since he wasn't being forced to wear the caddy coveralls. Instead he was in a black t-shirt and worn jeans, but appeared perfectly at home among the sharper dressed club members. He was also seemingly unperturbed by the people watching him golf. It was a marked change to Dean's need to stay in the shadows, and Sam hoped it was a return to his old form, when he truly enjoyed showing off from time to time, and letting himself be _seen_.

Dean came back to stand beside Sam while Kevin walked up to the tee. The man looked nervous, nervous and _pissed_. He'd started out cocky and browbeating Dean, but that had only lasted until the second hole. About the fourth hole, he'd started getting really worried. By the time they got to the tenth, he was angry and starting to swear at his caddy, his clubs, the course, anything he could other than himself. The swelling crowds weren't helping matters, because he knew he was going to lose and he was never, ever going to live it down.

"He kinda looks like he's gonna have an aneurism," Dean observed, his head cocked to one side as he watched his opponent tee off and then swear loudly and slam his club into the ground before tossing it to his caddy and stalking off down the fairway.

"He should be grateful he didn't have a heart attack," Sam returned wryly. He fell into step beside Dean as they followed behind Kevin.

"He was in the hospital yesterday evening," Sam heard off to his right.

He turned and saw that Dean's golf mentors, Ed and Tom, were trailing behind them. The movement put too much torque on his ribs and he was instantly sorry. Sam was grateful he didn't have to haul a golf bag today. He was having enough trouble with the standing and walking and was glad all he had to do was hold whichever club Dean wasn't using at the time.

"Eddie, my man! Tommy boy," Dean said cheerfully. "What are you doing here?"

"We heard about this little showdown and couldn't resist," Tom answered.

"Especially since we taught you everything you know," Ed added, a definite glint of amusement in his eye.

Dean chuckled and nodded. "Absolutely. What did you mean about him being in the hospital?"

"He went in for chest pain after his round yesterday afternoon."

"That so?" Dean asked, shooting a glance at Sam, who returned it with a bare nod.

Ed pursed his lips. "Apparently, he wasn't doing so well, and then presto, from one minute to the next they couldn't find anything wrong with him at all."

"Lucky guy," Dean said. They'd headed out to the course not long after dark and been back to the motel before midnight. Taking out the ghost had apparently saved Kevin from an early grave.

"I imagine they told him to take it easy," Tom said, his eyes on Kevin's back, "but from the looks of it, he's still going to work himself into a heart attack before he gets to the 18th."

"It's Warren's fault, you know," Ed said with a sad shake of his head.

Sam and Dean both stopped at that. Tom and Ed did the same and they faced each other. "What do you mean?" Sam asked.

"Well, he changed the membership rules six months ago," Ed explained. "Used to be you couldn't even ask to join. Someone from the club had to nominate you before you could be considered, etc, etc." Sam nodded. Typical good old boy club. "Somebody sued the club for being 'elitist' and Warren relaxed the rules to get a more _balanced_ group of people."

"They let in the riffraff," Tom huffed. "Bunch of stupid people who didn't know the rules. Everyone in this club knew never, ever to cheat on the 17th. Every once a while some moron would try it, but they couldn't say they weren't warned."

"The president changed the membership requirements and all these people started joining who didn't know anything about what goes on here and ol' Mitch went right after them for breaking the rules," Ed stated as if it were the most ordinary thing on the planet. "He always hated cheaters."

"You knew all this time?" Dean asked, astounded.

"You think there is anything that goes on in this club that we don't hear about?" Tom cackled. "We knew you two were coming to take care of Mitch before you even got here."

"That you're a good golfer was just a bonus." Ed smiled broadly.

"The thing I don't understand is why President Warren called us in at all if he knew there was a chance we'd actually find the body," Sam mused.

Tom shook his head, amusement plain in his aged face. "The course trustees are the ones who made him call you two. With the health department as well as the trustees after him, he was in danger of losing his job, not to mention having the course closed."

Dean narrowed his eyes as he looked at the two old men. "And who are the trustees?"

Tom let out a now familiar cackle. "You're looking at two of them."

"We couldn't have the course closed," Ed explained. "Where would we go to play every day?"

Dean rolled his eyes while Sam just shook his head in disbelief. "Glad you have your priorities straight," Dean muttered.

"Oh, we've got them right where we want them. Don't we, Ed?"

Ed just smiled. "Well, we should let you get back to business. This young man needs a dressing down and we shouldn't distract you."

Sam and Dean shook the men's hands and watched as they wandered off down the fairway with the others, a trail of, "He's a natural," and "Who'd have believed it?" following in their wake.

They finished the 15th and 16th holes with Kevin managing to drop another stroke to Dean while also managing to so offend Tom and Ed, who had made a decent suggestion of a different club, that Sam was fairly certain Kevin's days at Oaklawn were numbered. Not that the guy would ever be able to show his face on the course again after today.

As they approached the 17th hole, a hush fell over the crowd and Sam saw quite a few members of the crowd staring at the part of the trees that still held crime scene tape. A police officer was actually posted at the edge of the trees to keep people away.

"I'm kinda surprised they didn't shut the course down for a day or two," Dean wondered out loud.

"We know the police chief," Tom, still standing nearby, stage whispered. "We're playing a round with him this afternoon."

"Guess it helps to know all the important people in town," Sam murmured.

"The joys of country club life," Dean replied.

The police, of course, had absolutely no clue what had happened. A greenskeeper had found the president dead of apparent blunt force trauma only a few feet from a burnt out golf bag containing another apparent, and as yet unidentified, murder victim.

After they finished looking down the fairway, the crowd turned back and seemed to stare with renewed interest at Sam and Dean like they _knew_.

Dean leaned over to him. "Is it just me or are you kinda freaked out?" he asked out of the side of his mouth.

"These people all knew about what was going on here and didn't say a word. I don't think they're gonna call the cops in now that it's all over."

"Dude," Dean said, as if a thought had just occurred to him. "If the police chief's a member of the club, then he knew about Mitch already. He just didn't know where the body was or have proof of who did it."

"Guess he'll be happy then. Mystery solved and his golf game is safe."

"Yeah. Happy days at Oaklawn," Dean remarked snidely, although he shot a definite sidelong glance in Sam's direction. "Now they can cheat again."

"Dean-"

His brother just brushed it off and headed for the tee. "I'm up."

His stance was relaxed, not even a sign of nerves or tension. He struck the ball soundly and although it didn't go as far as it would have with a driver, it stayed nicely in the fairway. Kevin, however, looked like he was so tense he was going to explode and promptly hit his into the trees, albeit thankfully not on the side toward the lake.

"Something new and different," Dean declared. "You managed to hang a Louie."

"Shut up," Kevin snapped and once again stomped off to find his ball.

Dean just snorted. "I think his underwear's two sizes too small. It would explain the hostility."

Sam was barely listening. He was too busy trying to keep his temper in check. Dean's cheap shot had definitely been aimed at him. "Are we gonna talk about this?"

"About you cheating?"

"I'm not _cheating_," Sam said through clenched teeth. "I'm not doing anything."

"Tell me another one," Dean shot back. "Cause the ghost went right for you, man. _You_. Complete with the marks and the stopped heart. Tell me. Seen your girlfriend lately? She get over that little pea soup problem?"

"She's not my girlfriend," Sam hissed. "She's-"

"What, Sam?" Dean said in exasperation. "Your mentor? Your demonic Obi Wan? Your _friend_?"

Sam felt the words like another punch to the jaw. Not just the words, but the anger, the vitriol behind them. Ruby was a tool, a thing, something he was using to get the job done. They were on deck for the apocalypse and Sam was willing to use anything and everything necessary to stop it. If he got to rip Lilith's head off with his bare hands then that was a bonus.

Sam opened his mouth, but Dean held up a hand to stop him. "You know what? Whatever you're about to say is a lie, so why don't we just stop right there. Save you the trouble of tellin' it and me the trouble of pretendin' I almost believe it."

Sam could feel his blood rushing in his ears. Dean just wouldn't _listen_. Sam tried and tried and Dean _refused_ to understand. The older they got and the deeper into this mess they got, Sam understood how much grayer the world was. There was no black and white anymore. Anything was fair game if it got the job done. Ruby, demon blood, his powers, they were necessary to get the job done, and the world was going to go to hell in a hand basket if he didn't use every resource at his command to bring down Lilith and her cronies.

"Sammy?" Dean said more quietly, almost tentatively.

"What?" he bit out.

"I know we screw up." He looked down and huffed out a weary, sorrowful version of a laugh. "At this point, I'm the poster boy for screw-ups. But..."

"What, Dean?"

"Just... I want you to remember something for me, ok?"

Sam's jaw was clenched so tightly his teeth hurt. "What?"

"Remember we're the good guys. _You_ are one of the good guys. Ok?"

Sam felt like all of the air had been sucked out of his lungs. Before he could answer, Dean turned away and walked toward his ball. He was farther from the hole than his opponent so he took his shot and then to Sam's surprise, he walked toward the trees and Kevin.

Sam followed and watched as Dean walked up to Kevin and put an arm around his shoulders. The other man bristled and tried to shove him off, but Dean barely budged. His grip had to be bruising despite how relaxed he appeared. He tilted his head closer and Sam could see he was speaking quickly and very quietly to the other golfer.

The small crowd that was standing in a semi-circle behind them waited silently with the exception of a few whispers as the two men spoke. After about thirty seconds, Sam saw Kevin settle down and actually start to listen, although Sam couldn't hear what was being said. After another thirty, the man was nodding. Thirty seconds after that Dean clapped him on the shoulder, and backed away.

Kevin looked at him for several seconds as if trying to figure him out and finally shook his head as if it was a lost cause. He called his caddy and chose a different club, then approached his ball which had a troublesome lie, but was playable. Sam heard his brother murmur something else and the man nodded and shifted just slightly. When he struck the ball, the thing actually did what it was supposed to do. It went toward the hole.

"That's what I'm talking about," Dean crowed, and slapped the man on the back. "See what happens when you're not a jackass?"

Kevin scowled and opened his mouth to retaliate, but Dean stopped him with a glare that had shut down many a better man. "What did we just talk about?" Dean said in a tone that was straight out of the John Winchester, I-will-not-put-up-with-your-crap-and-I'm-heavily-armed school of encouragement.

Kevin grunted and walked off toward the green, although without the furious clomping that he'd been displaying up to that point.

Several people in the crowd snickered, but Dean's gaze passed over the group and they quickly stopped. "Guys," Dean chastised lightly. "I'm tryin' for some positive reinforcement. Help me out here." Suddenly, he smiled and the crowd couldn't resist smiling in return. It was infectious. If Dean was happy, everyone around him was happy.

"Come on, people. We finish this up, there's a drink waiting for us at the club."

The crowd whooped, in a very dignified, we're too rich to really whoop sort of way, and headed toward the hole.

"What did you say to that guy?" Sam asked curiously.

Dean shrugged. "We had a meeting of the minds."

"You threatened to castrate him, didn't you?"

"I would never." Dean raised an eyebrow as if thinking. "Well, I might, but that's not what I said." They fell into step following the others. "I... uh... I told him life was too short not to listen to people who could help you."

Sam just nodded. That was part of the problem. He could help Dean, but his brother wasn't listening. And Dean... he thought Sam needed to listen, and refused to consider any other way. Mitchell Wray had died because he was being a stickler about the rules. He thought he was doing the right thing to keep Warren on the right path, but when it came down to it, dead was dead.

Dean was willing to do that. He was willing to go down, _again_, doing the "right" thing. Sam wasn't willing to do that anymore. He was willing to do whatever it took to keep Dean alive, whether his brother approved or not. Sam hadn't agreed with Dean's methods for bringing him back from the dead, so his brother was just going to have to take a little of his own medicine.

His _not in front of Dean_ mantra was only going to hold for so long before Dean found out, but it had to be done. He had to save his brother. He had to save everyone. There was no other choice now, even if Dean couldn't follow where he was going. It was the only way.

Dean sighed. "Come on, Sam. We have a game to finish."

They did have a game to finish, and Sam was going to do it. "Yeah."

Dean grinned, and Sam couldn't help an answering grin, though it made his heart ache. They weren't there yet. They still had a little time. Not much, but a little.

"We'll finish up here, and then..."

"What?"

Dean's grin broadened into a full-blown smile. "I've got a hot date."

"With who?" Sam jeered. "Ms. Nichols? Pretty sure she still thinks you're an uppity underling, even if you are the big hero."

"Uppity underling?" Dean laughed. "Ok, yeah, that sounds about right. But, no. I made a promise and I'm a man of my word."

"What promise?"

Dean reached into his pocket and pulled out his lighter. "My Zippo and I have a hot date with some coveralls."

Sam just shook his head, but he joined Dean as they walked out of the trees toward the green and the 18th hole beyond. "Come on, Tiger. We'll finish here and then we'll see... We'll see..."

* * *

_Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed this. Until next time..._


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